


Tormented

by GuileandGall



Series: A Templar's Promise [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Broken Circle, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 09:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: Cullen is among the few survivors of the initial attack by Uldred and his rogue faction within the Ferelden Circle Tower at Lake Calenhad. One demon fancies him, not simply for the chance to escape through possession of a templar, but also because there is a secret hidden deep within his mind—one Cullen isn’t even aware of.





	Tormented

**Author's Note:**

> I’m fully aware that this includes discussion of a controversial subject, but I attempt to put it into a realistic and understandable light. While I don’t agree with the tirade that concludes the Broken Circle mission in Dragon Age: Origins, I can understand how Cullen’s experiences would inform and fuel his opinions, even if those thoughts soften throughout the series.

**-1-**

This room of ancient white stone rippled with charcoal veins witnessed the last steps of Ferelden mages for ages. The number of horrified screams that echoed through this chamber increased significantly in recent days. With the rash action of a few came the defilement of the Circle Tower, the ruination of its templars, and the ravaging of its most prized and powerful souls.

Corrupted spirits rushed through at the behest of powerful maleficarum. Some bound themselves inside the bodies of the living, but the most powerful chose to walk Thedas in their own natural form, both horrific and disturbing, as they feasted on fear and blood. Hooves clattered against the stone floor, scraping in a way designed to draw the attention of the few living souls remaining in what had become a playground, though despite some freedom, it was still very much a prison.

Like the smell of sweets in the air, the human’s emotions swirled on the breeze. Its nose lifted into the air with a deep, eye-closing inhale; a forked tongue peeked past bruised lips to taste the determination laced with a delicious hint of fear. This one managed to hold out beyond physical pain and the anguish of watching others perish screaming. His strength only made the demon more determined to possess him bodily—killing him wouldn’t be enough, it needed him.

When the door opened, the demon’s form had shifted from tall and poised to a squat older woman with a round face to match her round belly. Gingery curls spilled out below her cap and bounced as it darted across the room to his side. Taking on the facade of his mother, the demon attempted another confusion. Even knowing it was futile, these displays still excited the demon if only for the moment of desire that spang forth from its prey. His desire for a moment that this was all real, that it was all somehow a horrid nightmare or fever dream.

Dropping to pudgy knees, the demon cupped its victim’s face, gasping on ragged breath. “Cullen! Oh, my dear boy!” Sausage-like fingers pushed coppery curls away from his face and eyes twinkling with tears studied the dark circles beneath his eyes, his hollow cheeks, and sallow complexion. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

The templar leaned into the touch for a moment, almost allowing the disguised demon to envelope him in a comforting embrace. Without sign or warning, the human wrenched himself out of its grip. His voice held more strength than the demon thought he had left. “Away, demon! I will not fall for your tricks.”

The words echoed off the cold stone as a grin quirked the demon’s mouth in an upward curve. _He is so delicious._ Devouring this one from the inside out would be absolutely delectable.

The visage of the older woman, hair silvered at the temples, looked at him aghast. Then slapped him across the face. As he reeled from the blow, the demon dropped the guise. It grabbed his chin and wrenched his gaze to its own. “You will,” it promised. Cheek against his, it guided his eyes around the room. Some of his brethren were still being tortured. Others had already succumbed—many of those lay lifeless, eyes dark and empty, in pools of their own viscera.

 _But this one_ , the demon thought, its fingers caressing the rough stubble on his chin as it brought his face back toward its own. _This one has a strength uncommon for his age._ With the curious wonder of a child staring at the offerings in a sweets shop, it studied the human’s amber gaze. He looked tired, but oddly resolute with those narrowed eyes and a firm set in his strong jaw.

It pushed its fingers into his hair; the hand tightened as nails scratched his scalp. A sharp pointed nose, brushed the tip of his. It waited for his eyes to meet the deep red of the demon’s, which he eventually did. The way he did not look away made this all the better. He did not cower or shake in its grip. “You will be mine, templar.”

Holding his gaze, it dipped back into his mind. The demon pushed past some memories and waded through others, latching onto them long enough to leech a deeper truth about the prisoner. This templar proved persistent.

It had broken others. It knew family and friends were weak points, but so far that had only met with moderate success with this one. Its charge pulled away, trying to break the connection, but the hand on his chin went to his neck. With the other it formed a cage for the man’s head. The chains rattled against the stone overpowering the quiet grunts of struggle as it pushed further.

There had to be something there. Some memory, some desire that would break his defiance. It was a matter of persistence. A demon if its caliber should be able to easily consume this _human_. It refused to be beaten by such an insignificant wretch. This one and those like it didn’t even possess magic, merely consumed power in an attempt to beat back those dripping with the essence of the Fade. They were little challenge, and far less so once stripped of their serums and powders. Most of these armored men were little more than sustenance to fuel the possession of far more useful vessels.

Pushing deeper, it discovered a warmth. Here, its progress slowed. It tiptoed into the memory, circling around it from above like a falcon searching for its prey. A red headed girl with soft blue eyes looked up from a book. The smile, genteel, almost polite, but it wasn’t about her smile. It was drawn to the feeling this memory stirred in the templar. There was a splash of cold, like shock, then a content warmth—happiness, infatuation. Gripping the thread, it trod along this same path to another such memory.

“Excuse me, sir.” The lyricism of her voice inspired a purr in the demon’s throat.

The sharp tightness of surprise, brought back the cold of anxiety, which the demon lapped up hungrily. “Y-yes,” Cullen replied. The way his emotions swirled around this one. Ebbing hot and cold, like a feast.

“Could you help me? I can’t reach …” The girl pointed vaguely toward a shelf brimming with books.

Riding the memory, the demon snacked. For it could not drink its fill until Cullen opened up completely. Its tongue flicked against his chin, over his lips, even as the human grimaced and struggled despite his state of confinement.

In the memory, the templar complied. Stretching for the heavy tome, then carrying it to a reading table for her. The rush of emotion when her hand brushed his made the demon groan. _How delicious this could be?_

It ventured farther past other moments, a ritual, a kiss. It sought the act of love, that kind of connection, that loss of control, that it could so easily twist. Like a robber in a home rifling through drawers, it tossed memories here and there leaving the templar’s mind a muddled mess as it searched.

The yell broke forth from its mouth, inches from his.

“Get … out,” the human managed to screech before mustering the strength of will to force the demon out of his mind, “dem—”

Its hand tightened on his throat, before he could finish the word. “You do not decide when we’re done playing. _You_ are merely entertainment, food—a plaything. You only still draw breath because you amuse me.”

The second entry into the man’s mind was not gentle; there was no easing into his memories or thoughts. A smile curved deep purple lips at the templar’s cry. It hummed as if savoring a particularly delectable delight, but only for a moment. The speed of the dive made Cullen scream again, in wracked pain that sang along the demon’s spine, tingling from the first second to the last. It concentrated on that, his anguish. Even if this templar wouldn’t give it what it wanted at that moment, the demon could still feast on his pain. The distraction left it oblivious to its path or direction within his mind, until it found a wall. The momentum with which it hit this entity jarred the demon, causing its body to stagger in the real world.

It faltered a moment, reeling back. Its hands loosening enough for Cullen to gasp another desperate breath before the grip on the templar returned to holding tight rather than torturing, for the moment.

Mentally butting up against the barrier, the demon tested it. Many humans had walls, hiding both hurt and joy. Either way, this could be just what it wanted, what it needed in order to turn him completely. Of that it was certain. It slammed wantonly against the barrier. Nothing happened. The subsequent tries became quickly more violent and frenzied, the templar thrashed in its grip until falling unconscious. That just left it more time.

Straddling Cullen’s chest, the demon curled over his malleable form with a hand on each side of his head. “I will know what you are hiding, human.”

Frustration fueled rage. The demon’s pride twisted it as it refused to even just butcher this single templar for blood. The desire to know what lay beyond that unnatural barrier in his mind became its focus and kept the demon from completely losing itself in its prideful search to not be bested by this human. It kept Cullen just barely alive, only alive enough to struggle from time to time. It liked the struggle—the way the human thrashed and cried out as the demon probed and tore at his mind, at the barrier.

 

**-2-**

Cullen’s teeth ground together as fire shot through his head, piercing nerves and singeing memories that once brought him joy when the loneliness ebbed. These sessions happened often enough that sometimes the templar couldn’t be sure which version of the memory was true when they came back to his mind in sleep. If that was truly what was happening, in the first place.

All he knew for certain was that when he woke, it would all start again. The demon’s sandpaper rough flesh brushing against his. Its sour, acrid breath burned in his lungs. That heated tongue flicking over his face with a dark desire to feed.

“I will know your secrets, Templar,” the demon taunted. It looked female—shapely hips draped in ragged strips of fabric and firm breasts pierced and linked to chains that sparkled and jingled with every step. It was the soft crackle of purple fire crowning her horns and the clatter of hooves that broke the sultry spell her bared body might cast on some men.

His base instincts were well-controlled, especially during and despite of the situation within the Ferelden Circle Tower. Cullen refused to give in like so many others had. Even as his veins burned from withdrawal and his body transitioned from sweating fevers to chilled tremors, he refused to give this beast the pleasure of succumbing.

“No,” he assured. “You. Will. _Not!_ ” The last word came out as a yell that took most of his strength to muster as he cast the demon from his mind once more.

It reeled, but only for a moment. Then its rough horn scratched against his forehead as it pressed close again. The touch of its fingers was gentle, almost loving as they moved through his hair, over his face. “Oh, I assure you. I will. Then I will devour every last scrap of you. Out of spite,” it spat.

The demon released him with a rough push. Cullen sank onto his calves where he knelt, hands falling to the ground with the weight of the shackles around his wrists. It was over, for now. Even so, he dreaded the next part.

Over the hours, days, weeks, however long this had all been happening, the demon had created for sort of schedule for Cullen. Torture. Probing of the mind. It always ended with death. Never his own, always another’s at first it was anyone the demon could find. Of late, however, the deaths had been … calculated. Or so it seemed to Cullen. The demon chose faces familiar to the templar.

The hoofs clacked across the stone, scraping here and there. As the footsteps neared again, there were also cries.

“No. No, please.”

Cullen’s gaze rose along the form. Small feet, one bare and bloodied, scrambled like a marionette’s as the demon dangled the boy in the air. His deep blue robes gathered near his throat. This time it chose a young mage, barely more than a child. He’d been brought to the Circle five weeks earlier, by Cullen himself.

Frantic bright green eyes darted from the demon to Cullen, stilling once they fell upon the templar. There was pleading in his gaze. “Please,” he begged.

Cullen pulled against his binds, he knew what was coming as well as he knew that there was nothing left in him to stop it from happening. “Carel.”

The look in the mage’s eyes as he stared at Cullen said it all. The boy hadn’t wanted to leave his home, begged to stay and promised never to use magic. In the end, he came willingly, if only because the Circle was the only option. His parents would turn him out if he didn’t leave.

Since arriving at Lake Calenhad, thinks had changed for Carel. He’d made friends, flourished, excelled in his studies, and now …

The demon placed his hands on either side of the boy’s head, the black tipped fingers camouflaged themselves in his short, wiry, ebony hair.  The templar pulled at his shackles, bloodying his raw wrists further in the futile attempt to reach the boy … to help, to protect him in any way he could muster. Sienna lips parted in a scream that pierced through the room, bouncing off stone, and etching a memory that Cullen would never lose.

Tears burrowed new trails over swollen and bruised flesh, through dried blood and the dirt caked to his skin. “Carel,” he whispered as the boy’s eyes went white, his stare blank.

There was one last gasp of pain before the demon buried its face in the curve of the mage’s neck. Even at the deep sound of gulping, Cullen couldn’t rip his gaze away. Bearing witness was all he could do for Carel, for all the ones the demon brought before him as taunting reminders of his own powerlessness.

“I don’t know what you want,” the templar screamed. His heart ached—for those he knew, for the ones whose names he didn’t know, and for any that still somehow remained alive in this horrid tower of defiled death.

The demon’s form had warped from the sleek female form it had taken initially. Its skin now bubbled and bulged here and there, its long fingers looked more like thin, twiggy branches than hands. When it lifted its face, blood poured from its lips and stained the boy’s robes. “I want it all. I want you to give yourself to me. Every inch,” it growled. Carel’s lifeless body fell to the floor as the beast stalked toward Cullen. Bone crunched beneath its heavy resounding steps. “Every moment.”

Cullen gasped when the demon grasped his head and wrenched it backwards. Blood dropped in heavy globs onto the templar’s cheek.

“ _Every memory_.” The demon drew out every syllable like a threat. “Open your mind to me and it is you that will be my next meal. You won’t have to watch another drained of soul and breath.”

“You’ve taken it all,” Cullen yelled. His nerves and his emotions were on edge and it showed in the way his voice shook with the raised volume. This demon had taken on his mother’s face, his father’s, his siblings’ and cousins’, even the Amell girl’s, and countless others all in an effort to get something from Cullen. Something he couldn’t even fathom.

Talon-like nails scratched into Cullen’s scalp with another jerk of the demon’s hand. “I want what you’re hiding.”

Its face turned almost beautiful. Red irises glimmered in dark, deep set eyes as its nose traced the bridge of Cullen’s. “Give me your secrets. The one’s you hide from even yourself.” The voice flowed into his ears, smooth like warm honey. Even the touch changed. An almost timid hand pushed through gore-encrusted curls with an unnatural ease, while the thumb of the other hand traced Cullen’s chin. “There’s no more need to hide. Tell me and I’ll set you—”

Its head snapped toward the door with a sharp growl. After a moment of silence, with its head cocked sideways like a curious hound, the demon loosed him with an angry sound reverberating in its throat.

The templar sank to the cold stone again. His eyes found Carel’s blank stare, but only for a moment. Screwing his eyes closed Cullen searched through the jumble his mind had become and found the words he’d known since he was a boy younger than the one whose life had just been taken.

“O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights.  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.  
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me.  
Stand only in places You have blessed.  
Sing only the words You place in my throat.

My Maker, know my heart:  
Take from me a life of sorrow.  
Lift from me a world of pain.  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace.  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death.  
Make me one within Your glory.  
And let the world once more see Your favor.

For You are the at the heart of the world,  
And comfort is only Yours to give.”

His words echoed in his own ears, though somewhere in his head he recognized the clash of swords and howling screams of demons. Even so, he repeated the words over and over. With hands clasped beneath his chin, his body bobbed in time to the rhythm of the verses he muttered.

Used to the opening of the door, Cullen ignored it despite the dissonance of the footsteps that approached.

“You, Templar,” a female voice called out.

Cullen finished his prayer and looked up, steeling himself for the demons next trick. His gaze was harsh when it fell on the ebon-haired elf, Dalish, if he were to guess by her dress.

“This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t work. I will stay strong—. I will not give in to you. Take any face you wish. I will not grant you what you seek foul abomination.” With each word, his voice and his resolve strengthened until he was on his feet and pulling at his shackles again. His words hissed from between gritted teeth, his gaze did not waver from her face.

“The boy is exhausted. And this cage … I’ve never seen anything like it.”

This voice was gentle and kind. It reminded him of his mother’s, especially when he or one of his siblings had taken ill or just needed a bit of comfort. His gaze shifted to the older woman. Her familiar face and kind eyes tugged at his addled mind.

“Rest easy. Help is here.”

Cullen’s hands dropped to the floor again with a metallic clatter. His head dropped forward. “Enough visions,” Cullen groaned, his anguish, both physical and mental, seeping into his stuttering speech. “Stop hiding. Just kill me now and stop this game.” His voice broke once. “You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake … for theirs …” His thoughts hopped, like a rock skipping across the still surface of a pond, but he clung to his resolve. “Sifting through my thoughts … tempting me. I am so tired of these cruel jokes … these tricks … these—”

“This is no trick, Templar. We are here to help,” the elf said, in a low, commanding tone.

“Silence!” Cullen barked, glaring up at them. “I’ll not listen to anything you say. Now, begone!”

“Perhaps, my dear Warden, we should leave him to his stammering,” another elf, this one blonde and tattooed, suggested as he leaned toward the first.

“Yes, go. Find another to haunt.” Cullen shooed them with a dismissive gesture. His voice lowered, speaking more to himself than to the visions. It did little good to speak with the visions, or so he’d discovered. Then an idea, a horrible idea struck him. He looked straight into the Dalish’s face and said, “I’m the only one left.”

“Be proud. You mastered yourself,” a large gray-skinned man who could only be qunari told him with a stern nod.

The concept twisted itself through the templar’s mind and his gut. The distasteful idea soured his stomach and offered a new source of energy. “Be proud? What is there to be proud of? That I lived and they died?” His lip curled as if he’d smelled something far worse than the stench of sulfur and death that hung heavy in the room. “That boy had barely arrived, but that thing slayed him, if only to have the power to inflict more torture.” His gaze found Carel’s hand, all that was visible from behind the congregation of people beyond the haze of purple. “Too weak, they said. Unable to contain the power,” he explained before he looked up at the elf, who was still somehow there in that form. “They turned some into monsters. And—” The weight of his own failure crashed down onto him like a stone; he slumped again as if the air had been let out of his body. “And there was nothing I could do.”

“You must stay strong,” the elf told him.

Cullen let out a deep breath through his nose and his head dropped to one side a bit as if the start of a shake. “And to think, I once thought we were too hard on _you,_ ” he grumbled, looking up and staring straight at the white-haired woman he was certain he knew.

Wynne said nothing, but the Warden Cyna Mahariel spoke up. “Mages are not inherently evil.”

“Only mages have that much power at their fingertips.” He accused, drawing up just enough strength to point at the recent death. “Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of demons.”

“This is a discussion for another time!” Wynne cut in curtly as if reprimanding a rowdy classroom of students. “Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred. Where are they?”

Cullen glared at her for a time, still uncertain as to whether any of them were real or some demonic illusion. “They are in the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there—” His voice cracked once more as he shook his head. His own suffering had been one thing, but compared to what he heard from that ritual space. He could only assume those taken there had it worse. “Oh, Maker, preserve us.”

“We must hurry. They are in grave danger. I am sure of it,” Wynne told the Dalish.

“You can’t save them. You don’t know what they’ve become,” Cullen pleaded as memories of abominations parading down those stairs played in his mind.

“And you do?”

“Better than you. _You_ haven’t been under their influence. Those mages have been surrounded by maleficar whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts.” His voice broke again, strained with emotion and the stress of the situation. If they were real, he needed to make them understand the danger, the threat held within this place since the fall.

“His hatred of mages is so intense,” a man in templar armor whispered. “The memory of his friends’ deaths is still fresh in his mind.”

“And more, I dare say,” Zevran chimed, knowing signs of torture well enough.

“You have to end it now before it’s too late,” Cullen all but begged. His chains clanged as he shifted forward, but his gaze wasn’t hard, it was tearful and tired. After everything they had all gone through, death seemed preferable to living with the memories or the chance that demons had snuck in unknowingly.

The elf crouched before the templar. “I will return once we’ve dealt with this situation. Rest, Templar, your suffering is at an end.”

He wasn’t sure he believed that. His eyes traced their steps up the stone stairs toward a heavy, reinforced door. It was built to keep demons in, but somehow that and all the other defenses of the Tower had failed. All that remained to save any of them was the Right of Annulment. It was the only guarantee, the only chance to save the Circle, the mages, or the people beyond Lake Calenhad.

To allow any to leave this place after all of this would be a vile mistake, more so than deaths that would have to come as a result. Cullen could only hope the Dalish and those that accompanied her were strong enough to make the only choice left available. _They all must die._


End file.
